forty crows in paris. a poem.
1.
Walking the streets of Paris,
I run into Picasso.
Sun-burnt
Wind-burnt
sandy-dusty
fidgety-edgy
and charcoal-eyed.
He smiles.
I worship a god with a bull head, he says.
Pigeon-wing arms
Crucified over an altar of satin-covered wood.
Huh, I say.
The heart is a ventricle labyrinth, he says.
We are often lost in its chambers.
There is a bull in all men.
The bull-man shares my face.
And at night, he says,
I dream of the minotaur.
Okay, I say.
I have some wisdom for you, he says.
Please, I say.
Love thyself first of all.